


In The Grave All Shall Be Renewed

by perihelion_88



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Half-Blood Prince, Post-Order of the Phoenix, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 19:16:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14142762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perihelion_88/pseuds/perihelion_88
Summary: Because it was your prayerRecovered him upon the bed of death





	1. Rediscovery

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2006. Title, summary borrowed from W.B. Yeats' Broken Dreams.

  
The clock chimes nine times. Remus’ long fingers delicately skim over the worn bindings of hundreds of books as he searches for the one he wants to read tonight. He finds it easily enough—Treasure Island always rests on the same shelf, next to his collection of Yeats’ poems—and pulls it out, taking the book and his tea over to the comfort of his reading chair. He touches the cover tenderly before opening it. Although the ink has faded slightly with age, Remus can easily identify James’ untidy scrawl on the inside cover.  
  
_Happy Birthday, Moony! There was no way we were buying you one of those romance books Evans has got her nose stuck in every night, so we decided we’d buy you a manly book—an adventure book. It isn’t exactly the type of book I would have liked to have bought for you (there are some nice ones with moving pictures, if you catch my drift) but Sirius said you wouldn’t appreciate a book like that. So you better enjoy this more than the chocolate and socks you get every year because we put a lot of thought into which book we should buy you._  
  
Padfoot, Prongs, and Wormtail  
  
P.S. Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! You can expect some Firewhiskey smuggled in from Hogsmeade when you come up for bed, Moony.   
  
The book is tattered and worn with age; some of the edges have smudges of chocolate and the pages are well-folded where Remus has dog-eared the page to mark his place. He has read this book dozens of times since he was sixteen years old and he still cannot say he’s gotten tired of it. He smiles to himself before he begins to read: “Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end…”  
  
There is a frantic knocking at the door. Remus looks at the clock: it’s ten past nine and there is a sinking worry in the pit of stomach. Someone calling this late would not come with good news. He stands up, his bones creaking in protest (I’m too young to feel this old, he thinks), and opens the door cautiously.   
  
There is an overpowering smell of human sweat mingled with dirt and rotting flesh—Sirius is standing on his front stairs. There is a wild fear in Sirius’ eyes but his expression softens as the worry rises as bile in Remus’ throat.  
  
“What’s happened?” Remus demands as he ushers Sirius into the small entryway.  
  
“He’s back, Remus,” Sirius croaks. “Voldemort’s back. Harry saw him with his own eyes. And one of the boys, that Hufflepuff boy, he’s—he’s dead. Fudge doesn’t believe Voldemort’s come back so you can be certain the Ministry won’t help us this time around.”  
  
Remus’ tongue becomes thick in his mouth and he feels like he’s seventeen again when they were thrust into the world as new soldiers in the first war, young and reckless, unaware of the strength their enemy held. There will be more deaths, he is certain of that, because the rise of Voldemort meant the beginning of a new war.   
  
All Remus can mutter, however, is a mere, “Is Harry all right?”  
  
There is worry and anger etched into Sirius’ posture. “I need to be with him right now!” he exclaims vehemently.  
  
Remus puts a comforting hand on Sirius’ shoulder and leads him to the kitchen. He puts the kettle on and Sirius buries his face into his hands.   
  
“Sirius?” Remus looks uncertainly at the man in front of him and quietly wonders what has happened to their youth and their trust.  
  
“The Phoenix must rise again,” Sirius responds, his fingers curling around his mangled hair. Remus nods his head in understanding. The kettle’s whistle blows shrilly and Remus shuts it off quickly, afraid of disturbing the fragile silence of unspoken words lingering between them.  
  
Remus makes two cups of tea and sets one down before Sirius as he sits down across from the man he once called his lover. Sirius takes a sip before grimacing.  
  
“Sugar, Remus?”   
  
“You used to like sugar in your tea.” Remus shrugs.  
  
“You used to hate it.”  
  
Remus gives him a half-smile before sipping his tea. “I’ve grown fond of it while you’ve been gone.”  
  
The length of his absence is apparent to both of them; their meeting last year was nothing more than a momentary glimpse at the truth, scraped away from beneath layers of mistrust. Sirius is not as handsome as he used to be. Instead, his face is gaunt from starvation, his hair is mangled and too long, and there is uncertainty in the once confident movement of his limbs. Azkaban has broken him.   
  
Sirius looks at him hesitantly, opening his mouth once or twice to say something, but then thinking otherwise. “I’m sorry, Remus,” he finally blurts out, running his finger around the edge of the tea cup, a nervous habit that has stuck with him since Hogwarts.  
  
“For what?”  
  
“Everything I’ve ever done to you.”  
  
Remus chokes slightly on his tea. “Do you think that saying you’re sorry makes everything all right again?”  
  
Sirius frowns at the bitterness in his voice. “Of course not…I just don’t want anything to come between us anymore, Remus. I’ve been alone too long.”  
  
“So have I,” Remus mutters. “Not many people would want to date a werewolf…”  
  
Sirius looks grim. “I didn’t think…” he trails off.  
  
Remus gives Sirius an uneasy shrug. “Even if I wanted to, everyone would have reminded me of you.”  
  
“You’re all I thought about in Azkaban. You were the only thing the Dementors couldn’t take away from me,” Sirius says, his voice cracking at the thought of Azkaban. “They took everything away from me, Remus. They stripped me bare. But I couldn’t let them take my memories of you. When…when I sat there with these empty thoughts in my head, it was your face I saw that brought me back.”  
  
“Sirius, don’t,” Remus chokes. “Not here, not now.”   
  
“ _No_ ,” Sirius breathes, reaching for Remus’ hand and clasping it tightly. “You need to know, Remus. I need to tell someone.”   
  
Remus shakes his head and recoils slightly from Sirius’ touch. “You need to get some rest. And a bath; being on the run for so long has done wonders to your beauty. You look like death, and your smell isn’t far from it.”  
  
A hint of a smile plays on Sirius’ lips as he scrapes the chair back and stands. “A bath would be nice,” he admits. “Lead the way, good man.”  
  
  
Remus gets a bath running, sidesteps Sirius as he exits the bathroom and rummages through his linen closet in search of a clean towel. When he returns, Sirius is sitting on the edge of the tub, his head buried in his hands.   
  
Remus clears his throat and Sirius looks up, taking the towel from Remus’ outstretched hand without a word. Sirius appears lost for a moment: as if he’s forgotten what it is like to bathe and to have a comforting home.   
  
“It’s all right, Sirius,” Remus says gently, his hand resting lightly on the other man’s forearm. “Take your time.”   
  
“You use the same shampoo from Hogwarts…” Sirius observes.  
  
“I don’t like change all that much,” Remus replies, unbuttoning Sirius’ shirt for him.   
  
“Am I…will I be intruding on your routine then?” Sirius asks. He watches Remus’ nimble fingers unbutton his shirt, which he then slips off.  
  
Remus gives Sirius a comforting smile. “No,” he says, “I can get used to having you around again. I’ll be in the living room, just down the hall. Call me if you need anything.”  
  
Sirius nods and Remus shuts the bathroom door behind him. He leans heavily against the door and sighs. This reunion wasn’t anything like he imagined, although their meeting last year did not end how he had wished either. At least this time would not end with him turning into a salivating monster and Sirius on the run with a hippogriff.   
  
Remus wanders into his living room and collapses wearily into his reading chair. He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, wishing his body would relax like the house settling around him. His fingers are trembling from nearly touching Sirius’ skin and he wonders what it feels like to touch another man after all these years, what it feels like to touch Sirius.   
  
He remembers his first kiss with Sirius; awkward with bumping noses and catching teeth—the only way they knew how to kiss one another. For a while, there was nothing but hard, bruising kisses that left both of them breathless. As they became more comfortable with their relationship, they learned how to kiss in order to please and to make promises. Remus’ lips still burn when he thinks of his last kiss with Sirius before  _that_  night: it burned with the promise of return. So here was Sirius, returning to him at last, but Remus can’t help but wonder what their kisses will promise now, and hopes that they can keep them this time.  
  
The sound of water rushing through the pipes an hour later alerts Remus that Sirius has finished his bath. Water falls heavily to his wooden floor and Remus turns to find Sirius, clad only in a towel, standing in the doorway.   
  
“I don’t have any clothes besides the ones I came in…” Sirius says, slightly embarrassed.   
  
“Oh! I’m sorry, Sirius. I didn’t think…”   
  
Remus shakes his head and jumps up from his chair, leading Sirius upstairs to the bedroom. He opens and slams drawers closed, searching for suitable clothing. He throws Sirius a pair of plaid pyjama pants and a threadbare t-shirt, apologizing profusely since that is all he can offer him.  
  
“You’re already giving me more than I deserve.”  
  
Sirius changes in front of Remus but without the same confidence in his body he once had in his youth. The pyjama pants end too short and the shirt probably won’t keep him warm, but it’s the best Remus can offer.  
  
“Don’t say that Sirius,” Remus replies, stepping towards Sirius like an awkward fifteen-year-old would approach a crush.  
  
Sirius closes the distance between them and rests his forehead against Remus’. “I’ve missed you, Remus.”  
  
Remus presses his lips against Sirius’ tentatively, almost questioningly, but Sirius stumbles away from him, a look of uncertainty on his face.  
  
“I don’t remember, Remus,” he babbles. “I don’t remember what it’s like to kiss you, to hold you, to be  _whole_  again.”  
  
Remus’ fingers itch to feel the warm skin of another and he fingers the hem of the shirt before pulling it over Sirius’ head. His fingers skim Sirius’ chest just as tenderly as they touch the bindings of his precious books. He wonders what secrets and forgotten promises hide behind the whorls of indigo inked into Sirius’ skin and he traces the tattoos with a strange sort of fascination.   
  
Sirius himself is tracing lines on Remus’ body, but instead of ink, he is following the path of scars that he has never seen.   
  
“I wish I had been there for you,” he says dolefully.  
  
“You’re here now,” Remus replies. “That’s all that matters.”  
  
Remus yawns and feels the heaviness of sleep in his limbs.   
  
Sirius steps forward as if to lay a hand on Remus’ shoulder, but instead, lets it drop awkwardly by his side. “I’m sorry for keeping you up, Remus,” he apologizes.   
  
“You need the sleep more than I do,” Remus says, pushing Sirius towards the bed.   
  
“Where will you sleep?” Sirius asks, crawling into the comfort of the feather-downed bed.   
  
“Don’t worry,” Remus assures him. “Just sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.”   
  
Sirius is asleep before Remus can say goodnight. Remus smiles sadly and curls up uncomfortably in the chair beside the window, watching over the broken man before him.   
  
Remus is awoken in the early hours of morning by Sirius’ hysterical thrashing. He’s mumbling inaudibly in his sleep and he’s clutching tightly to the sheet covering the mattress. Remus unfolds his legs, winces at the aches in his joints, and stumbles over to bed. He lays a comforting hand on Sirius’ face before crawling into bed beside him.   
  
“Sirius…” Remus whispers hoarsely.   
  
Sirius turns his head sharply towards Remus’ voice and knocks his nose by accident.   
  
“Are you all right?” Remus asks.   
  
Sirius gulps before nodding his head. “Azkaban haunts me even now…” he mutters.   
  
Remus cautiously puts a hand on Sirius’ chest, tracing the curves of his tattoos—the only visible proof of his time in Azkaban. “What did they do to you there?”   
  
“Horrible things. The Dementors—” Sirius shudders violently, “—they know how to break a man. They steal every single happy moment from you until you’re left with all of your painful memories that torment you more than you could ever imagine. They leave you as a shell of your former self. You should see some of the prisoners, Remus. They sit in their cells all day, every day, wailing and falling into madness.”   
  
“How did you survive?”   
  
“I thought of you…what I could have done to prevent this from happening to you, to us. We could have been fucking legends, Remus, and instead we’re nothing but men hiding behind our grief.”   
  
“Sirius…”  
  
“I should have trusted you, Remus. I should have told you, not Peter. Why did I trust Peter?”  
  
“No one saw him for who he truly was, Sirius. Not even Dumbledore. We all trusted him because we didn’t think Peter would ever do such a thing. You didn’t trust me and I didn’t trust you. It’s not something we can change now.”  
  
“Remus…I can’t remember why I didn’t trust you in the first place. I was young, foolish, and in love. In love with  _you_ , for Christ’s sake, so why the fuck didn’t I trust you? I don’t remember…” Sirius is becoming hysterical and Remus is gripping his arm tightly.   
  
“We were in the middle of a war, Sirius. The Order forced us to keep many secrets from one another. You were gone for days at a time—how was I to know if you were dead, or alive, or if you weren’t really doing something for the Order, but for Voldemort?”  
  
“Why would you even think something like that?” Sirius hisses. “You know my family…”  
  
“I know, Sirius. I know. But that war was unlike anything we had ever experienced before; Hogwarts could have never prepared us for that. The concept of loyalties and traitors was beyond our comprehension because we thought that we were invincible and indestructible.”   
  
Sirius barks a laugh. “We thought we were fucking immortal, Remus. Now look at us…look at where we are and where we’re heading…”  
  
“Down the road to another war.”   
  
Sirius knocks his nose against Remus’, as if he was to kiss him but holds back at the last moment, and looks him square in the eye. “We’ll make it through this war together, okay?” he says.   
  
Remus nods, but knows that this is one promise neither of them can keep. He sighs and brushes his cheek against the cool cotton sheet, waiting for sleep to come and soothe his current aches.  
  
  



	2. Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slowly, Sirius reawakens.

The first month living together is a trying month. A month of arguments, slammed doors and most noticeably, broken mirrors. Sirius stands in Remus’ bathroom for hours scrubbing at the ink on his chest and brushing his putrid teeth. When he is in these moods—ashamed of his death-like appearance after years of rotting in a place like hell—there is nothing Remus can do to bring him back. Sometimes Remus wonders if Sirius is too far gone for him to save.   
  
When June fades into the uncomfortable, sticky heat of July, they are summoned by Dumbledore, who requests a favour from Sirius. Remus lays a hand gently on Sirius’ elbow as Dumbledore explains what is needed of Sirius. In the best interest of the Order (not for himself, Remus thinks), Sirius agrees to Dumbledore’s demands. The Order now has a headquarters.  
  
After two weeks of taking down wards and putting new ones up, Sirius is standing on the porch of the house he thought he would never see again.   
  
“Sirius, I know—”  
  
“Don’t say it, Remus,” Sirius snaps, unlocking the door and stepping into Twelve Grimmauld Place for the first time since he was sixteen.   
  
With the wave of his wand, Sirius illuminates the room to survey the disaster they would be calling home. There is a thick film of dust covering every surface—nothing a simple spell can’t get rid of—but Sirius knows his family and voices his concern over the containment of various creatures and poisons throughout the house.  
  
Sirius walks further into the room to check for any spells inside that might trigger any unwanted attention to the Order. There is a strange noise behind Remus and he whips out his wand as he turns around, only to come face-to-face with the portrait of his late mother.  
  
“You half-breed,” she spits. “You filthy excuse for a Wizard. How dare you set foot inside my house?”   
  
Sirius’ back stiffens at the sound of his mother’s voice and in a few long strides he is beside Remus with his wand pointed at his mother.   
  
“You!” she shrieks. “You blood-traitor, shame of my flesh!”  
  
Sirius tries to remove his mother’s portrait in hopes to burn it, but it will not budge.  
  
“She’s probably put a Permanent Sticking charm to it,” Remus suggests.   
  
Sirius shakes his head and motions Remus to help him pull the curtain over the portrait to obscure the hideously aged face of his mother. Her shrieks are muffled by the heavy curtain and Sirius sighs before sliding to the floor, his head bowed in defeat.  
  
“I don’t think I can stay here, Remus,” he murmurs.  
  
“I know how much you hate this place—the bad memories that you must relive—but this is the safest place for the Order to be.”   
  
Remus isn’t convinced when Sirius says, “I know,” but he doesn’t say anything, and instead, offers what he can: silent comfort. He gives Sirius’ hand a brief squeeze before heading up the stairs to check out a few of the bedrooms and get them ready for the members of the Order who are here to stay for the summer.  
  
Remus finds comfort in the vast Black library. Although he finds some very unpleasant books, the Blacks have also obtained quite a fair amount of rare classic books, written by pure-blooded Wizards, of course. Remus has no hope of finding books from his own collection, and wishes he had thought to take some before they left. But books are books, and any place that allows him to escape the wrath of Molly Weasley’s cleaning fury is a place for him to be.   
  
Remus looks up from the book he is reading when the library door slams closed and an infuriated Sirius sits down in the chair across from him, crossing his arms like a stubborn child.   
  
“What’s the matter?”   
  
“Dumbledore won’t let me join the group sent to collect Harry. He’s my godson. I should have the right to get him.”  
  
“You will see him when he gets here. Sirius…you’re a fugitive of the law, you’re on the run. Imagine what would happen if you were caught…” Remus tries pointing out.  
  
“Not you too,” Sirius snarls.   
  
“Well, I’m sorry for being selfish,” Remus snaps. “But I don’t want you to get taken away again.”  
  
“I feel like I’m being imprisoned again,” Sirius says pathetically. “I hate this house.”  
  
Remus wishes that they were sixteen again; when dungbombs and chocolate could make anything better and when kisses weren’t desperate and searching. He wishes he knew the right things to say to Sirius without making him angrier because both of them have changed: Sirius isn’t as easy to placate as he used to be and Remus seems to have lost some of his articulacy. They are still young yet they feel so old; there are aches in their bones that can only be attributed to grief and loss. They try to forgive one another—it should be easy, Remus thinks, considering how many times he’s forgiven Sirius over the years—yet there are some mistakes and broken promises that neither of them can seem to forget.   
  
Summer fades into autumn.   
  
School is back in session, all the children are sent off, and Grimmauld Place is quiet once again. With the way Sirius is acting, Remus feels as though the house is becoming more like a tomb every day. Remus is kept busy with his obligations to the Order and Sirius is becoming bitterer about being imprisoned, dealing with his grief in ways Remus only half understands. His body aches to be out of the home he ran away from nineteen years earlier.   
  
He has shown Remus the family tree and the motto he was forced to live up to until his name was scorched off the fabric. A single golden strand now leading to nowhere. Regulus’ name is beside Sirius’ with a year of birth and death and if Sirius’ name was still there, threaded in gold to represent his status as a prince, he would finally have gained the crown back from his brother. As it stands, Sirius is the last king of a dying name. When Sirius dies, there will no longer be any wizards carrying the Black name in the Wizarding World. Remus thinks Sirius must know that because every now and then, Remus finds him tracing his thread and stopping shortly before the ugly burn that mars the elegant tapestry.  
  
  
Christmas brings life back into a house that was consumed by silence and guilt. Sirius is laughing for the first time in a long time and Remus wishes he could always remain this young at heart. Harry brings light back into both of their lives, but Remus sees the way Sirius looks at Harry and it’s apparent that sometimes Sirius confuses Harry for James. It worries him that Sirius cannot separate the past from the present at times and wonders if this is another one of Sirius’ ways to cope with James’ loss.   
  
Sirius gets through Christmas without incident and Remus hopes that perhaps Sirius will remain cheery, forget that he is imprisoned, and enjoy the time he has with Remus. But Remus is frequently gone on missions for the Order and each time he leaves he feels as though he’s rubbing his freedom in Sirius’ face. It is apparent on his return that Sirius thinks so too because he always comes home to a cold and silent house.  
  
There are moments when Sirius is willing to talk to Remus about his fears and his frustrations. But for the most part, he draws away from the Order and the people who care about him the most, seeking solace in silence. When Sirius withdraws, Remus feels the ache of loneliness settling in his joints and his heart. But afterwards, he feels guilty because he has no right to feel lonely—Sirius is the one who cannot escape, not him.   
  
Sirius finds comfort with a hippogriff. The fact that Buckbeak is the one who hears the secrets Sirius has kept hidden beneath layers of guilt and grief makes Remus jealous. He thinks it’s absolutely absurd that he’s jealous of a hippogriff and he wishes Sirius wasn’t so ashamed to share his secrets with him instead.   
  
Winter thaws into spring.  
  
Slowly, Sirius reawakens. Remus isn’t quite sure of the reason behind Sirius’ change in attitude, but hopes that he has finally learned to accept his current situation. He goes through days without complaining or being bitter, and when Remus attempts a feeble joke, he offers a rusty smile.   
  
He still talks of not being able to get out. But Remus does not know what it is like to be imprisoned; he can’t imagine how it must feel to go from being a prisoner in Azkaban to a prisoner in one’s own home, and so he lets Sirius rant and he does what he knows how to: he listens.   
  
Sometimes Sirius likes to turn into Padfoot and lay his head down on Remus’ lap, finding comfort in the slow steady strokes of Remus’ long fingers behind his ears and under his chin. Although Sirius is a dog for the most part, these quiet moments spent together gives them each a strand of hope that perhaps one day, things will be as they were before.  
  
Spring slowly gives way to summer.  
  
As they are sitting in the library, Sirius cannot stop rambling about being able to see Harry again. He can hardly stop to breathe when he gets on to talking about the things they are going to do for his sixteenth birthday. Remus smiles and threads his fingers through Sirius hair ( _smelling of cigarettes curled around too many secrets_ ).   
  
Sirius stops talking and leans his head against Remus’ hand, before turning his face to place small kisses on Remus’ fingertips. Remus swallows and Sirius places his hand on the back of his head before pulling him closer for a gentle kiss.   
  
“What was that for?” Remus asks bewildered.   
  
Sirius shrugs and gives Remus a half-smile. Remus curls his fingers around Sirius’ wrist and rests his head against Sirius’, sighing contentedly. There is a clatter downstairs that makes both of them jump apart.   
  
“What was that?” Sirius asks, pulling himself off the couch. Remus follows suit and they both creep down the wooden stairs.  
  
“Kreacher!” Sirius says sharply as they reach the bottom step. Kreacher is standing beside the fireplace, having knocked over the fire poker. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Kreacher is doing nothing,  _master_ ,” the house-elf mutters and then walks away, mumbling under his breath.   
  
“Look at this mess,” he says, waving a hand at the soot covering the floor. He mutters a quick cleaning charm and shakes his head. “Bloody elf…always up to something.”  
  
“Good thing Hermione isn’t here, Sirius. She’d be after you for that comment,” Remus jokes.   
  
  
A few hours later, Snape barges into Grimmauld Place, his black robes billowing behind him.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Sirius exclaims as Snape bursts into the kitchen.  
  
“Your idiotic godson has gone off to get himself killed again,” Snape retorts.   
  
Sirius is on his feet in an instant. “Where is he?”  
  
“The Ministry of Magic, looking for  _you._ ”   
  
Sirius looks confused. “What…?”  
  
“He believes that Voldemort has you in his control and is torturing you. So he left the school thinking it was up to him to save you.”   
  
“We’ve got to get him,” Sirius says frantically, searching for his wand.  
  
“Sirius, don’t be stupid,” Remus asserts. “Harry’s in the  _Ministry_. Imagine if someone saw you…”  
  
“I don’t give a damn, Remus. Harry’s my godson and I need to save him.”  
  
Something in Remus snaps and the words spill out of his mouth before he can even think of saying them. “You can’t keep pretending that Harry is James. You can’t think that because you failed James, you can’t fail Harry. There’s no need for martyrs in this fucking war, Sirius.”  
  
He looks at Remus apologetically and with his wand in hand and a look of determination set on his face, he rushes out of the kitchen. Remus is not far behind him.  
  
  
The battle is a disaster; they are outnumbered and Tonks has already fallen. Moody is doing the best that he can, but he’s lost his eye and it’s just Remus, Sirius, and Kingsley. Remus is unsure of how this will end, but then Dumbledore arrives and Remus feels a surge of appreciation for this man, their saviour.   
  
Unaware of Dumbledore’s arrival, Bellatrix Lestrange and Sirius are still duelling with one another, taunting with words and spells. Remus’ stomach churns uneasily as he watches the battle between Sirius and Bellatrix and his fingers clutch his wand tighter.   
  
Remus sees the spell before Sirius does. His body understands long before his heart can as he rushes towards Sirius’ arching body, falling towards the fluttering veil behind him. Harry reacts faster than he can and Remus must grab him before he falls through the veil as well.   
  
“He’s gone,” he can hear himself saying, trying to hold the struggling Harry. “He can’t come back.”   
  
But Remus knows even his own heart does not believe him.   
  



	3. Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Age never eases the pain that loss can bring.

_From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged  
In rambling talk with an image of air:  
Vague memories, nothing but memories._  
  
  
Remus has been down this road before. He is older now, but age never eases the pain that loss can bring.   
  
He cannot return to Grimmauld Place; afraid that grief will steal what memories he has left of Sirius. Instead, he finds himself sitting on a dusty couch in a familiar room, surrounded by a past that never fades. Treasure Island lies where Remus has accidentally left it: on the arm of his favourite chair, a thin film of dust coating its cover. He exhales a shaky breath and flips through the pages, suddenly thinking he’s too old to read silly adventure novels.   
  
He slides the book back into its rightful place beside Yeats and sighs. It’s back to routine again: to long nights of lonely shadows and cold tea with too much sugar, to cheesy romance novels with sex and no plot, and to waking up alone without the comfort of another’s heartbeat. He will wake without the heat of Sirius’ mouth on his, no longer able to taste the unique blend of spice and chocolate on Sirius’ tongue, or the heaviness of Sirius’ body leaning into his, his fingernails making half-moons in Remus’ skin, marking him.   
  
 _‘You are mine.’_  
  
You are gone.   
  
Gone like James and Lily, like Gideon and Fabian. There is no Azkaban that separates them, no angry betrayal that boils his blood and makes him clench his fists when he hears Sirius’ name. There is just a piece of fabric that flutters in the air, heavy with the sighs of the souls lost behind it.   
  
There is a part of him that laughs bitterly, knowing that Sirius’ return had been too good to be true. But the other part lies to him and reassures him that Sirius will return, just like he did before, just like he’s always done. Sirius is not one to abandon his friends, not when their last shred of sanity seems to be slowly slipping away.   
  
Remus feels cheated. Death has taken Sirius away far too soon; they have yet to completely rebuild what they had once lost—what death and betrayal had taken from them the first time. Death has taken his world and tilted it on its axis, causing Remus to stumble through each day with the heaviness of loss in his limbs.  
  
He remembers this feeling of hopelessness, of being empty yet still alive. He wishes he could say that he’s never experienced loss, but the pain of grief is all too familiar to him. He buries himself in Yeats and malt whiskey, finding himself lost in the past all too frequently.   
  
At times, he wonders if he should write to Harry. They’ve both lost their last remaining link to the past and Remus wishes to tell Harry stories of the Marauders’ times at Hogwarts—to show Harry the real Sirius, the man behind the prisoner, the friend, and the godfather. In the end, he throws away six letters and burns four more. Every word he attempts to write comes out as a confession, as though he’s looking to Harry for absolution.   
  
He feels as though he’s failed Harry and Sirius somehow. Perhaps he could have tried harder to keep Sirius at Grimmauld Place, if only he had been more demanding, had done this or that. The lies that Remus tells himself cannot replace the guilt that gnaws away at him, that leaves him more naked and vulnerable than grief.   
  
  
Like before (a time he wishes he could forget), there is no stag, dog, or rat to keep him from harming himself. Sometimes, he coincidentally forgets to take his potion and when he slides the bolt into place, he gives himself freely to the quiet rage of the moon. His skin pulls and stretches in ways it shouldn’t and he grimaces as he hears the snapping of bones as they reform. His teeth and nose elongate and the monster that dwells within the body of a man emerges in a fury at being contained.   
  
He wakes up battered and bruised; his body aching and sore. But Remus cannot tell the difference—it’s the way he feels after waking every morning—he is broken by his grief.  
  
He heals the wounds he can, satisfied with the punishment the wolf inflicts upon his body, and no one says a word about the fresh, pink scars that adorn his face and shaking hands. But despite their silence, he can see the pity in their eyes and it hurts him because they don’t fully understand how deep this loss has wounded him.  
  
Remus still has the Order to occupy his time. Slowly, his world begins to right itself once more. The effects of grief, however, are always present in the slump of his shoulders and the scraping of his trainers against pavement as he makes his way to yet another pub. Bill Weasley accompanies him sometimes, making congenial conversation and helping him forget about the ghosts he’s been avoiding.   
  
Once, Tonks tags along. He sees in her the faces of those he once loved. Over drinks and the flickering light of a cigarette casting a mournful glow on his already mournful face, he tells her stories of when she was too young to remember and he himself was young and in love.   
  
 _Second year: his roommates cornering him in a third floor bathroom. Sirius has him pinned by the shoulders so that despite his struggles, he cannot escape the conversation he knows is coming.  
  
His mind is clouded by the frustration and helplessness he feels when Sirius tells him they know he is a werewolf. But then there is a surge of hope and love for these three boys as they accept him as their friend, promising never to reveal his secrets.  
  
“Friends don’t betray friends,” Sirius says._   
  
Remus laughs bitterly now, knowing what has become of them. Tonks places a comforting hand on his shoulder as he downs another drink.   
  
“I understand, Remus,” she says, trying to be sympathetic.   
  
But she could not possibly understand the betrayal he still feels and the long nights he spends contemplating what went wrong.   
  
He lights a cigarette and his hand shakes slightly as he inhales, waiting for the heady rush of nicotine. He exhales and the smoke curls around them in a hazy cloud. He rubs his eyes with his free hand. Tonks smiles and plucks the cigarette from his fingers, closing her eyes and taking a drag.   
  
“Nymphadora…”   
  
“Stop being rational, Remus,” she says.   
  
Remus shakes his head, knowing it’s not just his rational way of thinking that is holding him back.   
  
Tonks sighs but says nothing more except to urge Remus to continue sharing his past with her.  
  
 _Fifth year: He remembers the birth of stag, dog, and rat and an overwhelming sense of appreciation for these wonderful boys who he had the honour of calling his friends. It wasn’t simply the fact that they had accomplished such an unbelievable task; it was that they did so for him, to ease the pain of his monthly transformations.  
  
He can still picture the majestic stag that James had become; their leader, their king. Peter was the rat, the small rodent that could reach the nooks and crannies the other forms could not. Sirius’ form was always Remus’ favourite because the wolf could relate to the dog and Remus enjoyed the quiet moments after dawn when he had awoken simply curled up beside the warmth of the dog. That is until some time mid-fifth year when he began waking up beside a boy instead of a dog; he enjoyed those moments even more.   
  
Sixth year: There is a map that they each gave their magic to; a piece of parchment that binds them to one another through its weaving strands of spells and enchantments. The key to their success as marauders is finally put together for future generations of troublemakers. They spend months working on it; Sirius researches the spells they need, Remus’ steady hands draw the lines of the map, James comes up with the insults the map is to spew out to anyone who does not have the password, and Peter is to map out the grounds.   
  
Remus remembers smiling at Sirius as James and Peter whoop and celebrate. He remembers swallowing thickly as Sirius’ thumb wipes ink from his nose and suddenly, Sirius is_ this close  _and breathing on his face._  
  
“We did it, Moony,” he says, grinning roguishly. “We’re fucking geniuses!”  
  
“Here we go, gentlemen,” James says excitedly, pushing them all together in a tight, huddled group.   
  
Remus is all nerves and his hands are shaking as he holds the map, afraid that somewhere a spell went wrong and the map would fail to work. Sirius rests a comforting hand on Remus’ shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.  
  
“We didn’t make any mistakes,” Sirius says, reading the fear in Remus’ eyes. “I didn’t make any mistakes.”  
  
Remus nods shakily as the boys put their heads together, saying, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”   
  
They watch in fascination as black ink suddenly appears and comes together to form the outline of Hogwarts. The boys laugh as their creation comes to life and each hovering footprint marks a real inhabitant of Hogwarts, each passageway leads them to new adventures.   
  
  
Sixth year also brings betrayal; the first time Remus is betrayed, but not the last time. It’s the first time the boys are forced to realise the consequences of what might happen should Remus get away from them when they exit the Shrieking Shack as Animagi. It’s a wake-up call for them—Remus is a werewolf and quite capable of killing another human being.  
  
Sirius apologises hundreds of times but each time, Remus ignores him. Sirius broke the Marauders’ oath and Remus isn’t sure he can forgive him. But in due time, he does forgive him, just as he’s always done and things go back to the way they used to be.   
  
“How could you simply forgive him, just like that?” Tonks asks, staring at Remus with wide, curious eyes.   
  
Remus shrugs and smiles. “He’s Sirius. How could I not?”  
  
“Sirius got away with a lot of things when he was younger, didn’t he?”  
  
“The teachers loved him. Everyone loved him. Sirius was even convinced McGonagall was madly in love with him.”  
  
Tonks raises an eyebrow before laughing. “Sirius thought everyone fancied him.”  
  
“A lot of people did,” he responds, looking down at his half-empty glass of whiskey before taking a swig.   
  
She coughs uncomfortably and runs her hand through mouse-brown hair.   
  
Remus gives her a sidelong glance. “Why the change in colour?”  
  
Tonks blushes and turns her attention to the worn tabletop, her finger tracing proclamations of love and poetry written by penknife.   
  
She tilts her head to one side and reads, “I would spread the cloths under your feet: but I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”  
  
Remus smiles softly, brushing his hand against hers as he reads the lines with his fingertips. “Yeats,” he says. “My favourite.”  
  
“It’s lovely,” Tonks agrees.   
  
Then Remus offers her a surprising, rusty laugh. “Did I ever tell you the story of when James tried to woo Lily by reading her Yeats? He stole my collection of poems, stood on top of the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, and professed his undying love for her. He read those lines too: ‘I have spread my dreams under your feet; tread softly because you tread on my dreams.’”  
  
“Lily must have been embarrassed.”  
  
“She hexed him, knocked him flat off the table, and he ended up sprouting an elephant trunk.”  
  
“She must have been a brilliant witch.”  
  
“She certainly was,” Remus agrees. “A very kind witch too; she had a very big heart. James was lucky to marry her.”  
  
Tonks smiles as Remus reminisces but Remus can see the look of longing in her eyes. He knows that he will never love her the way she wants him to, but when she entwines her fingers with his, he leans into her, and urges himself to forget about Sirius.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of credit to W.B. Yeats for some of the quotes and inspiration for this fic (and many others).


	4. Resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She looked in my heart one day and saw your image was there.

_She looked in my heart one day  
And saw your image was there;   
She has gone weeping away. _  
  
Though the day is bright and summer is in full bloom, the air is heavy with grief. A white tomb sits before the crowd and the early morning sunlight reflects off the white marble, giving the tomb a heavenly glow. Inside lays the body of their leader.   
  
Remus squeezes Tonks’s hand, running his thumb across her knuckles as she lays her head on his shoulder, tears staining her face. Her vivid pink hair does nothing to ease the sadness in the hearts of those around them. Grief threatens to overwhelm Remus but as he feels the tears prick the corners of his eyes, he knows that he will not cry–he simply cannot cry. He spilt too many tears during the first war to know that tears do not bring back the dead, so there is no use in trying.  
  
The crowd rises to pay their last respects to Professor Dumbledore and Tonks clutches Remus’s hand tightly, silently urging him not to let go of her. He smiles gently, almost comfortingly, and wraps her fiercely in his arms.   
  
“What are we going to do without him, Remus?” she whispers, her voice cracking.  
  
“I don’t know,” Remus says truthfully. “But we will win this war, if only to get our revenge for those that we have lost in both wars.”   
  
“Will we make it through this war?” she asks, her brown eyes looking almost doe-like as she gazes at him questioningly.  
  
Remus has to swallow the anger that rises in his throat as he thinks back to the promise Sirius made on his first night back; the promise that he has broken.  
  
“Remus? Are you all right?”  
  
She puts her hands around his neck–her fingers are long and delicate, just like Sirius’s and Remus can’t help but wish, just this once, that it was Sirius in her place–and plays with the curls of hair at the base of his neck.   
  
He clears his throat and smiles down at her, saying, “I’m fine,” before kissing her soundly on the mouth.  
  
Remus likes the way Tonks tastes–like mint and tea–it’s calming and reminds him of home. But still, he cannot seem to get rid of the taste of spices and chocolate that lingers on his tongue.   
  
She sighs against his lips, her eyelashes fluttering against her pale skin, and Remus forgets about the way she tastes, but thinks that she looks just as beautiful as the summer day around them.   
  
They untangle from one another and together, they say a word of remembrance to the still, silent air before touching the cool delicate marble. A sense of finality surrounds them and for a moment, Remus is overwhelmed by a sense of uncertainty. But then Tonks places her hand on the crook of his elbow, resting her cheek against the thin fabric of his robe, and the anxiety is gone.  
  
“Let’s go home, Remus,” she says gently.   
  
He nods and leads her away from Dumbledore–the man they once thought would live the longest, the man who was their saviour and mentor–with a sadness that constricted their hearts. At this point, Remus does not know for sure what will happen to the Order without the guidance of Dumbledore, but he knows that somehow, they will make it through this war.  
  
  
Tonks is nothing like Sirius and at the same time, everything like him. She does not have the grace that Sirius possessed in his youth but she’s messy and leaves takeout on the counter, just like Sirius used to do when they shared a flat together. There’s a lot in her appearance that reminds Remus of Sirius. Sometimes he thinks that she does it purposely–changes her look a little each day to appear more like Sirius–as if it would help to ease the pain of his passing. But for Remus, it makes it a bit harder to forget him.  
  
He’s lucky to have her, he knows this; lucky that she accepts him for what he is, but at times, he sees the hesitation in her eyes. He knows that she does what she can for him, but when he needs her the most (when he feels the pull of the moon and the call of the wolf) she is unable to ease his pain.  
  
So when he comes back from a painful transformation to tell her a story about the first time the Marauders went out as Animagus, she smiles and does not mention that he’s already told her this story twice before.   
  
When he’s tired from the transformations, she sits with him and makes a cup of tea with no sugar. She even tends to his wounds when they need to be rewrapped and when she does this, Remus feels a rush of gratitude for this brave, young woman.   
  
  
The war makes children of them all; they stumble along blindly without Dumbledore to light their way. Harry has left them to save the world and, like true friends, Hermione and Ron have gone with him. They don’t write often because of the fear of interception, but Remus occasionally gets an owl with a note: ‘ _We are okay_ ’ and he wishes that he could write the same thing in reply.  
  
The news grows grimmer with each passing day and now that Dumbledore is gone, Voldemort becomes more open about his purpose. When they are together, Remus and Tonks try to avoid talking about the war; they pretend that Remus does not have some special mission for the Order and Tonks isn’t out capturing Death Eaters every day.   
  
Day by day, they fumble for words to speak. In the world of Tonks’ body—like an undiscovered city waiting to be explored–the war does not exist. But when news hits that one of the Weasley children has been killed, reality comes crashing down upon them.   
  
Remus spends hours alone in his room thinking about his own losses as Tonks consoles the mourning Weasley family–she’s better at sympathy than he is. His own words are hollow and angry, desperate for answers and for an end to this war.   
  
When he is overcome with frustration, he pulls out old photographs and reminisces of days long past, days that he will never see again. Tonks’ face is constantly etched with worry but she never says a word, though she offers him all she can.   
  
One day, he finds an entire box full of photographs of Sirius from Hogwarts. Tonks helps him sort through them, organising them by the year they were taken. One photograph in particular catches his attention and he puts it aside, away from the other piles.  
  
“What is that one?” Tonks asks, her fingers itching to touch the aged photograph.  
  
“This is my favourite photograph of Sirius.”  
  
Tonks frowns. “Why isn’t he smiling? He doesn’t look very pleasant.”  
  
Remus shakes his head. “That’s why it is the best; it shows Sirius as he really is–a king without a crown–not some playboy, mischievous marauder. He was very handsome wasn’t he?”  
  
“Yes,” she agrees. She sighs. “Remus?”  
  
Remus stares at the photograph a moment longer before snapping his head up to look at her.   
  
“I know, Remus. You don’t have to hide it from me.”  
  
Remus cocks his head to one side. “Know what?”  
  
She smiles sadly. “You loved him, Remus. You loved Sirius. You still do. I can see it in your eyes, in your heart.”  
  
“Nymphadora…”  
  
“Don’t call me that, Remus. I’m not a child anymore. I know and it’s all right if you don’t love me anymore, or if you never did.”  
  
“I did, Nymphadora.”  
  
“But you don’t anymore.”  
  
“No…I don’t think so.”  
  
She sighs and gets up, wiping dust from the bottom of her trousers before she begins to walk out of the room. Remus gets up as quickly as his aching bones will let him and he grabs her wrist, pulling her towards him in a final embrace.  
  
“I did love you once. Remember that, will you?”  
  
She kisses him, her lips pressing promises of forgiveness against his skin.   
  
“I’ll always love you. You’ll remember that, won’t you?”  
  
He nods and lets her go for the first and last time, knowing that unlike Sirius, she will not come back.  
  
 _Because it was your prayer  
Recovered him upon the bed of death   
For your sole sake–that all heart’s ache have known_  
  
It takes three years for the war to end. Three years and hundreds of deaths from both sides. Tonks is one of the last ones to die and Remus feels as though he’s now lost everything.   
  
Peter sacrifices his life in order to repay the debt he owes Harry–his sacrifice allows Harry to defeat Voldemort once and for all. Remus can now say that he is the last one standing.   
  
His legion of ghosts still lingers in the corners of his rooms and in the hollow spaces of his heart. When he sleeps, he curls his body to make room for Tonks. When he drinks, he pours an extra glass for Sirius. When he cooks, Lily is there, smiling, with her hair tied back and her apron on. When he reads Yeats, James sits beside him and calls the poet a ponce before making fun of Remus for reading him. When he transforms, they are all there beside him, even Tonks, who could not be there for him before.   
  
As autumn burns into winter (slowly, slowly–the world does not turn as fast as it should when you’ve lost everything you’ve known and you have nothing to gain), Remus begins to see less of the others and more of Sirius.   
  
Each night before he sleeps, Remus whispers a quiet plea to return Sirius to him. But when he wakes in the middle of the night–his threadbare t-shirt clinging to his body with sweat–there is not another body beside him.   
  
“Won’t you come back?” Remus asks of Sirius each night.   
  
Sirius smiles softly but does not say a word. He never says a word to Remus, he simply sits beside him in silence as if he is giving back to Remus all the silent comfort he had offered Sirius through the years.   
  
Spring returns and with it, Harry brings news of an ancient spell he’s uncovered on his travels that resurrects the dead. Remus is doubtful at first because they do not even have Sirius’s body–this is the fact that upsets him the most, knowing that without a body, Sirius’s death isn’t concrete–there is no proof that he had even died except for the existence of the piece of fabric that stole him from them.   
  
But when Harry owls him the spell and what is needed for the spell to work correctly, a sense of hope surges in Remus and for the first time in many years, it feels good to be alive.   
  
Remus finds himself on the steps of the dilapidated Grimmauld Place–left in disrepair by the absence the Order following Sirius’s passing–with a bag strapped across his chest and a piece of paper with the spell written on it clutched tightly in his balled fist.   
  
The door opens easily and without need of a spell; the house is dark and the floors are coated with a thick layer of dust. Remus is grateful for the fact that the portrait of Mrs Black has been removed, or else he would have a difficult time completing the spell.   
  
He seals the front door and in the hallway draws a circle. He puts five candles around the circle to form a pentagon and lights them. He steps into the circle, pulls from his bag one of Sirius’s old shirts, and places it before him in the circle. Then he pricks his finger and allows a single drop of blood to fall onto the shirt–blood from the true love of the departed.  
  
The entire spell is based on the concept of true love and the idea that love surpasses all, even death. Remus knows in his heart that, while he did love Tonks, he never stopped loving Sirius, and prays that the spell works.   
  
He takes a deep breath and recites the incantation. There is a heavy silence that is only pierced by Remus’s ragged breath. Then there is a sudden whoosh of air and the candles flicker before extinguishing. Remus is thrown into darkness.   
  
“Sirius? Are you here?” Silence. “Sirius?”  
  
There is no response. Remus stands still for as long as he can but his body begins to ache; he’s tired and he just wants to go home. His heart pounds painfully in his chest, knowing that his only chance to get Sirius back has now passed without success. He sighs and reprimands himself for getting his hopes up.  
  
He Apparates back to his home and collapses into his chair wearily. It’s only ten past nine but he’s already exhausted. He pinches the bridge of his nose before getting up to put on the kettle.   
  
There is a loud knocking at his door. Remus trudges to the entrance hall apprehensively. It is late after all and anyone calling this late could not come with good news. He unlocks the door and pulls it open. There is nothing but inky darkness.   
  
But then there are arms pushing him backwards, pinning him against the wall, and lips crushing his in a bruising kiss. It is then that he tastes the spices and the chocolate and can smell the leather of Sirius’s old jacket, can  _feel_ the leather beneath his fingertips. He has the courage to open his eyes and there is Sirius, in front of him, and he can finally touch him.   
  
“It took you long enough to get me back,” Sirius says gruffly.   
  
“You’re real,” Remus chokes out. “You’re real. You’re not a figment of my imagination.”  
  
“I’m real,” Sirius says, clutching Remus’ shirt tightly, still pinning him against the wall.   
  
It is then that Sirius first takes a good look at Remus and sees how he has aged since the war.  
  
“Christ, Remus…look at you.”   
  
Remus offers him a sad smile. “This is what war can do.”  
  
“There’s so much that I’ve missed…”  
  
“We have time, Sirius.”  
  
Sirius nods. “Yes, we have time.” He knocks his nose against Remus’ and kisses him again. “I’m not leaving this time,” he says with a tone of finality in his voice.  
  
“I know, Sirius.”   
  
And Remus does. He knows that this time, Sirius will not break his promise. __  



End file.
